The following story may contain some explicit sexual material. Though not blatantly pornographic, reader discretion is advised. Were this a movie, it would probably gain an R rating. This story was written as an exploration of character and while it might be considered erotic, the intent was to delve into the minds of the characters rather than to sexually arouse the reader. If you are looking for that you should look elsewhere. However, if you are offended by sexuality, you should look somewhere else as well. This story is Copyright 2002, Krystoff Vagabond. It may be freely redistributed as long as it remains completely intact and unmodified (including these headers). I welcome comments and criticism. Please send any thoughts you have on the story to kvagabond@mailcity.com You may find other stories of mine at: /~kvagabond -Krystoff --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Wednesdays and Fridays by K.Vagabond You know what it's like. Every guy knows what it's like. The first time you see her. Well not really see her. You never see all of her. You just catch that one feature; that single detail. Maybe it's her eyes, staring at you from across the room. Large glimmering eyes. A mirror to the soul. Piercing blue eyes that burn a hole through to your heart. Or maybe it's her lips - bright, luscious. ruby-red, wet gloss - begging you to approach her if only to hear what whispers may escape from between them. Maybe it's her hair. The texture of corn silk, and as she walks by you, you can still smell the faintest trace of the strawberry shampoo she used in the shower hours before. Or maybe you're just like every other guy on the planet and you don't notice any of that at all. Maybe all you notice is her breasts. Large firm mounds of flesh straining to break free from the stretchy fabric of her dress. I admit it. I was just like every other guy on the planet. I don't know why. I've never considered myself a breast man. No really! Don't get me wrong, given the opportunity, I'll lick, nibble and suck just as much as the next guy. But that's not really me. When I meet a woman, I'm always drawn to her eyes. When you look into a woman's eyes, that's when you can see where she's coming from. That's where you can find the truth. You look into her eyes, and you know her whole story. Try it one day. Come to a bar like this one, sit next to a gorgeous woman and look into her eyes. You'd be amazed at what you can see. I wish I had seen her eyes. It would make the story so much more perfect. I wish I could say that I saw her across the crowded bar; that I knew from that moment that we were destined to be together. I wish I could say that in a split second of kismet that lasted throughout all eternity our souls met and intertwined in a silent glance. I wish I could say that, but it isn't true. I admit it. She walked in and sat next to me and my eyes fell straight to her chest. I wish I could say our eyes met. But that would be a lie. The only truth that I can tell you is that she was the most beautiful thing that I had ever seen. The thing is, it wasn't really the first time I had seen her. I'd been watching her for weeks. She's a Friday. I've noticed certain things about the regular crowds here at Jack's. For instance, the Mondays are the quiet ones. They're the insurrectionists, the patrons who just aren't willing to let the weekend go. The Tuesdays are worse. The lifers. They're just here to drown their sorrows. People who just can't deal with living. The Wednesdays, well... they're the walking dead, the ones who have already given up, looking for anything that will let them escape the sad and pointless monotony of their daily lives at the office. I was a Wednesday. But, by Thursday, the kids are back in here. Trying to get an early start on the weekend partying. Somehow, a few years ago, someone decided that the weekend started on Thursday. How fucked up is that? Just throws off my entire routine. Plus that god-awful band is here on Thursday. Not that I'm overly fond of the pulsing nonsense rap beats they play on any other night, but I can't stand that horrible noise that those druggies play every Thursday. Doesn't anyone ever listen to Zeppelin anymore? But she was a Friday. She came in on Friday night and only Friday night. No other day. Just once a week to relax and unwind after a long week at work. Then there was that day. I don't know how many times I had watched her come in with her friend, Lauryn. Every Friday. Never before nine. Never after Nine Fifteen. This was the first time they were late. Nine TwentySeven. Lauryn walked in first, she seemed a little off. Kind of preoccupied. But right behind her was Shayne. Pure radiance. Her hair pulled back with a clip, one lock falling down in front of her left eye. Actually, her hair was very long, and frequently she would drape it around her shoulders and over her chest, but tonight she had it up to expose her perfect breasts to the world. She smiled and the room seemed to quiet to a hushed murmur as she walked in. That's why I never bothered to talk to her before. She was a goddess. What man could ever approach her? I never had to approach her though. Because she always had to approach me. Well, she had to approach the bar anyway. And the bar is where I always sat. I'm not an egomaniac. I knew she wasn't really coming up there to see me, but still, I could always tell there was something. Something in the way that she always stood right next to me when she ordered. "Jack?" she said as she leaned against the bar, the tops of her chocolate D-cup breasts spilling ever so slightly out of the tight pink dress and onto the countertop. "Two Jack and Cokes," the bartender replied before she could order. "Two Jack and Cokes," I chuckled quietly under my breath at the same time. "Is something funny?" she asked as she turned to me. I was shocked. I hadn't realized that I had spoken out loud. I was embarrassed. I had offended a princess. I didn't know what to do. I tried to stutter out an apology, but nothing came forth but the slight incoherent mumbling that always comes from a man's mouth when he first tries to speak to a sexual goddess. For a moment I had traveled through time into the distant past. I was in sixth grade and Alicia Donovan, the prettiest girl in school, had just turned around to see me leaning over my desk and staring straight down at her ass. Her jeans had come down just enough to give me a good view of the little blue and pink roses on her cotton panties and I had been mesmerized. "What are you doing?" She yelled at me, and I looked up straight into the lips that every boy at Nathaniel Hawthorne Middle School wanted to kiss. The lips that two weeks before had given Bobby Parks "the best blowjob ever," or at least so he'd claimed. The perfect pair of lips, mere inches from my own. But a kiss away. Something I had dreamed of. But I panicked. And I found myself completely devoid of words. "Uh-uh-uh" I stuttered and traveled back into the future. "It's ok," she finally giggled at me as I suddenly realized that I had no idea how much time had passed. "Hello, I'm Shayne." She raised her dainty hand to mine so that I could shake it. "David," I said surprised to have finally regained control of my voice. "My name is David." It took a moment for me to notice the hand extended to me, but when I did, I took it and gave it the most gentle of kisses. This elicited an additional giggle from the goddess that I took as a sign of approval. We talked for hours. Jack's never really closes, so its hard to really gauge how late it was when she finally decided that she had to leave, but however long it was, it was the most important conversation of my life. Hopes and dreams, fears and doubts. We shared our childhood dreams and our biggest idiosyncrasies. I've never reached out to a person that much. I've never felt as though I were that much a part of someone. It would be three more weeks before we actually had our first date. Honestly, I was quite surprised when she asked me out. As much as I knew I was in love with her, it somehow never even occurred to me to make any sort of move. Years later, when I would ask her why she did it, she told me that after nearly a month of talking all night, every Friday night, she had simply gotten tired of waiting for me. Maybe that's what's always been my problem. Maybe I'm too slow. Maybe I don't take the initiative when I should. I like to think of it as patience. A virtue. I'm told that most guys aren't patient enough. They're always in a hurry. In the store. In the car. In the bedroom. Maybe that's what Shayne saw in me. Maybe she saw someone who would always take his time. She had been hurt before. Mistreated by other guys, men who didn't care about her feelings or her desires. Men who didn't care about her love anywhere near as much as they cared about the mounds upon her chest. I've heard them. I've heard every crude comment and catcall that can be imagined. Sometimes I'm simply embarrassed to be a member of our gender. Ok, yes. I have to admit that sometimes the guys are creative, and maybe even a little amusing. "Hey sweet thing, I know you must hear this sort of thing all the time. No-no-no... this isn't a pick-up line, I'm serious. The thing is I own a bra manufacturing company and if I could just take some measurements with you is all." But usually they're just disgusting. "Hey baby, what's a brotha' gotta do to get his cock between those fineass titties?" And sometimes it just didn't make any sense at all. "ISAIDGODDAMN, Girl! Is you like hidin' a couple of midgets down there somewhere?" Shayne was sick of it. She was sick of the piggishness that seemed to be all that every guy around her had to offer. She was sick of guys being interested in her simply for her body. And maybe - because she saw so much more in me - maybe that's why she offered herself to me. We were in her apartment. I had walked her home after our third date. "Would you like to come up?" she had asked when we got to her door. "I don't... I mean, are you sure?" "Yes, its ok," she had told me as she pulled me by the hand through the doorway. We had glided up the stairs to her apartment; Lauryn was out, though I don't know where. She had poured us each a glass of champagne and there was music. Not the heavy fuck-me-now-fuck-meharder garbage that they call a love song back at the bar, but instead a nice, slow, sensual jazz groove, Anita Baker, I think. My head swam through the aroma of her hair as I kissed her neck. A moment later she was standing before me and I was breathing deeply as the spaghetti straps that held her dress fell from her shoulders. I stared at her, at her eyes this time, really at her eyes and looked for her approval. She gave it, silently, but I could see that it was there, and a second later her dress slid the rest of the way down her body and to the floor. Afterwards, we were lying together on her sofa underneath the quilted comforter that her grandmother had given her. My finger continued to stroke small circles around dark areola of the most perfect breasts in the world. Every once in a while, I would gently squeeze her nipples and a small gasp or moan would escape her lips with the puffs from the long drags she'd take from her cigarette. Smoking was her single solitary flaw. A nasty habit she had picked up at sixteen and never been able to rid herself of. "Why me?" I asked her. "Because." She answered. I imagined there was more to it. Because I was patient. Because I thought of her as more than just a sexual object. Because I looked at her in a certain way. Maybe just because I was me. But she never said anything more than that. Just because. We laid together in silence just like that for perhaps an hour. Just enjoying each other. Enjoying the peacefulness. Enjoying the afterglow and the soft warmth of each other's bodies, and as I felt her drifting off to sleep I leaned my head forward and gently kissed her forehead. "I love you, David." I heard her quietly murmur as her voice trailed off. "I love you, Shayne." I said it aloud, but it was already too late. She was already walking away with a Jack and Coke in each hand returning to the booth where Lauryn was waiting for her. No sooner had she sat down then they were joined by three of the stoners. I'd seen them before. They were Mondays. I closed my eyes and let loose a sigh. As I lifted my scotch to my lips I promised myself that when she came in next Friday things would be different. Just as I did every week.